Ferocity

Treasure such as this is surely

found but once a longing lifetime,

value beyond any measure,

beyond all but bravest reach.

Deeply is the secret hidden,

unknown to those timid lovers,

patiently awaiting they who

love with pure ferocity.

 

Oh, how wildly we’ve been toiling,

straining ev’ry aching muscle,

thundering our sacred promise

with each beat of truest hearts.

May this daily perspiration

fall to wet the dust beneath us,

softening the stubborn soil,

so our roots may flourish there.

 

Ever will I fight to loose the

clay of yesterday’s afflictions,

till my efforts break the seal of

fear which keeps me from my prize.

Someday when my work has won that

treasure from our well-turned garden,

there, I’ll place a seed of basil,

symbol of the trust we’ve raised.

Asylum in the Wild Blue

When the wind blew hollow

with a warning of impending guile,

and the sea was teeming

with the hue of a seeming wile,

I took asylum in the wild

blue,

ever following the wending clew,

tracing all the way from wild

blue,

to the mildly dreaming morning dew.

To desire like a child,

all the simple desperation of a screaming fire,

is the only song I know

in the key of your beaming smile.

 

When your gaze rose higher

to a view of demurring skies,

as they paled, feeling envy

at the style of your wooing eyes,

subtle teasing of the wild

blue,

and the heavens seem rather tame,

hardly pleasing as the wild

blue,

only yours are worthy of that claim.

Like the singing of a choir,

hallowed lyric worth defending with the fiercest pride,

bending knee, chorus bringing,

rise again with ev’ry new reprise.

 

When the dawn comes calling

and the stars are humming low,

and the wish I was dreaming

runs away like a melting snow,

cloak my spirit in the wild

blue,

an allure lighter than the breeze,

soak my body in the wild

blue,

an azure deeper than the seas,

beauty wilder than the flames

dancing hot upon the brazier of my secret name.

Just to see them as they wake,

is the wildest of the wishes I could ever make,

but till then I will watch them

soft at rest like a moonlit glow.

Paper Cuts

This poem is a reintroduction to the blog. It was previously removed to offer publishing priority to Voices Literary Magazine, who honored me by including “Paper Cuts” in their 2017 anthology, from whence I’ve included the amazing cover art by talented artist, Tae Kim.

 

Forgive me, i’ve been reading.

Bleeding proves but half as draining.

Raining words like daggers fall,

call across the turning sphere,

disappear, though, just before

lore of romance finds fruition.

Intuition washes over,

clover field or stinging nettle?

Settle down, or rise as vapor?

 

Paper notes can only cut

but half as deep as well-honed blending,

bending time and hollow space,

pace of turning pages.

Ages past since ties have severed,

endeavored to remove each finger,

linger, though, do taunting hands,

strands of plastic ticking slowly,

lowly is this wretched bleeding,

please forgive me, i’ve been reading.

Over Again

If our faces catch a soaking,

our roots will also drink,

partaking of the precious dew,

oh, and how we’re growing.

I find I cannot blame

the winter’s falling rain,

for I, too, fall for you

over again each day.

 

If, as we stand sodden,

a whipping wind assails us,

at least our cries are carried off,

lo, and we’re renewed.

I find a kinship here,

in spring’s emboldened breezes,

for all my breath is yours,

over again each day.

 

If, as we dry our petals,

and brace against a gale,

the sun appears so scorching,

in fact, another gift has risen.

I find I can relate

to the summer’s loyal sun,

for I, too, wish to shine for you

over again each day.

 

A shower on the wind,

below the knowing sun,

these have touched our seed

and pulled us from the soil.

I find I understand

autumn’s waiting earth,

for I, too, lay in wait for you,

over again each day.

Sum of Charms

See the trees grieve, disdain fruiting-

gone, the shed of many hues,

lain at each their bottoms were-

thieving sea breeze have them gotten,

looting, before due-north headed.

Rain and earth, like tea leaves,

stains under her waning gaze-

whispers of approaching Autumn.

 

Hear the hares who stand on end,

share in fretting as the wetting,

drizzly weather becomes grizzly.

Bare, the boughs, but for a pair

of owls setting, each of their

glowing glares a pair of vowels.

Crying tears the night a-splinter,

letting drop a hint of Winter.

 

Bringer of the birdsong singing,

lark aloud and softly swallow,

my pride follows clouds retreating,

lingers near the humming bees.

Sting my eyes till I see clearly

how to take her steady beating

wings as hallowed harbingers

of ringing Spring’s arrival.

 

Come, my sum of charms, disarming,

leisure loving up and comer,

over to my clover bedding-

rest upon my treasured chest.

Never will we shed our coat of

arms which strum each careful measure

to the song of pleasure at the

wedding of our sky and Summer.

You Have Slept

My words do not cascade.

My words are not sealed behind wax.

My words do not lie like unsent letters.

My words appear like colors have bled while you slept.

 

My blood is not the rain.

My blood is not ink on parchment.

My blood is not a spilling confession.

My blood is spray paint across a wall you pass by.

 

My wall will not stand tall.

My wall will not cage beauty in.

My wall will not keep conflict well at bay.

My wall is yours to proudly shatter glass against.

The Waiting Bud

The waiting bud trembles,

and my racing heart, too-

the energy implicit between us

is a kinetic whisper.

If I dampen the screaming of my blood,

each lyric is clear,

the primal tongue translated

to savagery within a current.

 

Latent petals are impatient,

and my feasting eyes, too-

seasons change quick as a shutter falls,

if the budding bloom returns a look.

Can I still my gaze until

time forgets I’m here,

throws open the day,

as she blossoms before my wonder?

 

The sweat of beading dew,

and my morning glance, too-

on the breeze, a harmony,

the union of our agonies.

As I turn to meet my sunrise,

taste the honeyed, floral scent,

my throat runneth dry,

though my cup runneth over.

 

The pounding rain echoes,

and my hunger cries, too-

pooling at her feet,

where I am also rooted.

Will I lift the chalice to my lips,

take my fill by right of need,

or will I bow- devout, submissive,

kneel to taste the running brook?

 

Fire does not beg consumption,

neither, my humming flesh-

now her vining reach flickers,

souls are entangled.

We make no use of form,

but collide as forces,

lightning striking lightning,

landing gently in the flame of a candle.